


Dead to Rights

by askanasshole



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Magic Stiles, People are alive because this is an au and I am in denial, Romance is not my forte, Stiles is Indiana Jones of Supernatural Shit, Stiles is a BAMF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:31:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2157492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/askanasshole/pseuds/askanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is picky when he chooses his jobs. Can't hurt anyone, can't end the world, can't end with him a different species or trapped in an alternate dimension. Can't be face to face. Simple. Easy. Necessary</p>
<p>Of course his entire life goes to shit when he's forced into a face to face with a werewolf pack stupid enough to get their Second's heart stolen by a witch.</p>
<p>Now if their Alpha would stop being so stupidly hot and he could get this job over with, that'd be great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unwilling Journey Starts

Stiles is wondering how many milligrams of caffeine he can get the barista to legally sell him (not how many it would take to kill him- he’s still in favor of an unexpected death and death by coffee is better than, say, fairies) when he gets the call.

He orders, rapid fire, shoves a couple of bills over the counter, and plunges his hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He answers on the third ring and winces. He knows it’s Jed, knows that Jed doesn’t like being kept waiting, and knows it’s going to eat up precious minutes soothing the older man’s ruffled feathers.

Stiles decides to pretend he’s been in a car accident to cover.

“Hey, Jed, you’ll never believe what just happened-”

“Drowning, kidnapping, car accident,” Jed lists gruffly, “I don’t want your excuses, I don’t care.”

Stiles grimaces. Right. He’d forgotten he’d used the car accident speech last time. Thought, to be fair, he had legitimately been on the scene of a car accident, one he had, in fact, caused. So he found Jed’s tone to be completely unwarranted and told him so.

“Don’t care,” Jed repeats, irritably. “Why I put up with you is beyond me.”

It’s beyond Stiles, too. Jed normally drops guys likes Stiles like they’re hot. He’s got every marker for an unprofitable business partner- eccentric, clumsy, reckless, dangerous, and, perhaps worst of all, imbued with a sense of morals. 

Stiles tries not to question the older man’s continued association. It’s beneficial to him, especially since Jed never bothers him with the morally dubious jobs. It means they both can continue with their happy, slightly-less-than-legal lives without Stiles having to “straighten out” another acquaintance.

It meant less work for Stiles and that made Stiles very, very happy. 

“You know you love me,” Stiles says happily. He picks up his coffee from the bar and heads over to the fix-it bar. An elderly woman standing near him scowls and Stiles raises his eyebrows back at her. It was six am at a Starbucks, why she was getting bent out of shape at his cell phone use was a mystery.

“Fuck you,” says Jed because he, above all else, is a charmer. Stiles can’t help the grin that spreads across his face as he dumps three packets of sugar into his beverage.

“You know I don’t do face to face,” Stiles says, “but if I ever do, I’ll make sure to put you on the list. Right after that kitsune in St. Louis and Milas Kunis.”

“Thanks,” Jed says, voice dry as the Sahara. “But I’ll pass. Twinks aren’t my thing.”

“You don’t know me,” Stiles says. He dumps in another three packs, tearing them open with his teeth. “For all you know, I’m Buff McBufferson from Beartown, home of the Bears.”

When Jed laughs, Stiles wants to draw the gun on the small of his back. It’s only the knowledge that the information broker is two, if not six, states away that keeps him steadily poisoning his caffeine with sugar.

“If you think I don’t know who you are, Red,” Jed says, still terribly amused, “then you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

Abruptly Stiles is having a bad day.

“What do you want, Jed.” He knows his voice has gone cold but Jed knows better. Stiles knows who the information broker is, knows where he is, and Jed isn’t worth his salt if he doesn’t know that. Jed calls attention to Stiles, Stiles will be there before anyone can take care of him.

Jed snorts, knowing what he’s thinking, like always. Stiles wonders if he should be happy or pissed that the older man is not in the least bit intimidated by him.

“I got a job for ya,” Jed says. Stiles stops by his jeep, fingers grasping in one pocket for his keys. Instead of keys, he comes out with a notepad with a pen clipped to it.

“Where?” he asks, flipping the book open to a new page, setting his coffee on top of the vehicle.

“Beacon Hills, CA.” There’s the sound of tapping on a keyboard. “A retrieval job for the local pack there.” 

Stiles pauses in his scribbling to raise his  eyebrows.

“That’s Hale pack territory,” he says and lets the end hang in the air. The Hales are well-established, powerful, and law-abiding. Hell, they’re half the law in the supernatural community and make no secret that scavengers, people like Stiles, are blights in the system.

“The Hales got burned out years ago.”

“Cut the crap, Jed,” Stiles snaps, done with whatever game Jed thought he was playing. Stiles was a below-the-radar type of guy which meant he didn’t deal with werewolf packs that could call out a million dollar hit on his head by the time the sun set. “We both know the Hales are back and strong. Have been for ten goddamn years.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jed dismisses, casual. Stiles’ eyes narrow. Too casual.

“Call someone else,” Stiles says abruptly. He flips his notepad shut, shoves it back in his deep pockets. “Thanks for the offer.”

“Wait, wait, wait, look. Honestly, I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t know about the Hales.” Jed sighs. “Can I at least tell you the job before you go to ground?”

“I don’t go to ground,” Stiles says, affronted. “Just because I don’t answer my phone, or, or email does not mean-”

“Shut it, kid,” Jed snaps. “Look, the Hales ran into some trouble. One of their betas got on the bad side of a witch, witch took a souvenir, the pack wants it back. It’s not an artifact, it’s not dangerous, it’s a quick in and out job.”

Stiles thinks about it. He nods slowly although he knows Jed can’t see him. “Say I take it. What’s the fee?”

Stiles has enough money after the Grimoire job but he doesn’t need Jed to know that.

“Triple.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “My usual fee?”

“No,” Jed says and Stiles can hear the edge in his smirk. “Triple mine.”

Stiles whistles and calculates. That was a six digit job right there. It figured considering the Hales were old money.

“What’s the catch?” Stiles asks because he’s not an idiot. The silence following his question is not encouraging.

“Face to face.”

“No.”

“They’re willing to swear they won’t disclose any details,” Jed says. 

“The only reason I haven’t already hung up,” Stiles says slowly, “is because I like you.”

“They’ll swear a blood oath, Red,” Jed says.

“Jed, are you...begging?”

“No,” Jed denies immediately but it’s too late. Stiles already heard it and, like lightning, his brain makes the connections.

“You owe them,” he accuses and nearly laughs with disbelief. The aloof broker owed the wolves a favor! He knew Jed wasn’t as untouchable as he’d made himself appear.

“It’s not just that,” Jed says angrily. “They’re good people. Wolves. Whatever. If you really want to argue it, you owe them too. They’re the ones who got rid of the necromancer last year.”

“What’d you do?” Stiles wants to know. “Trespass on their lands? Give someone information on them? Mail them a dead fish?”

“If you need to know,” Jed says, speaking through gritted teeth, “They saved my brother and my niece from being torn apart.”

Stiles feels like a dick. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Jed practically snarls. “So I’d like to do right by them, if that’s alright with you.”

“That’s-” Stiles starts and then stops. He sighs and runs a hand down his face. He understands how life debts work in the supernatural world and, more importantly, he knows what family means. “That’s alright and you know it.”

“Thought so,” Jed says. There’s more clicking and clacking on a keyboard. “You gonna do it?”

Stiles feels like an even bigger dick. “Can’t, Jed, I’m sorry.” The kicker is that he honestly is. “I don’t do face to face.”

Jed heaves a sigh. “Kid, you make everything so hard for yourself.” Jed sounds remorseful and Stiles feels his hackles go up.

“What-”

“Stillinski,” Jed annunciates, “Not even going to try and pronounce the first name. Born in a backwater town, son of the local Sheriff. Orphan by 14, MIA by 15-”

“Stop,” Stiles snarls, heart beating too hard in his chest. He’s breathing like he’s run a marathon and his free hand is curled into a tight fist. He takes a deep breath. “Where,” he says, voice tight, “did you get that information?”

“Consider it your payment for doing this job,” Jed says, calm and collected. “I’ll give you my source and all documents as payment, on top of the promised fee after it’s finished.”

Stiles realizes, distantly, that Jed is being more than generous, probably out of guilt. He’s too angry to care.

“Jebediah Argent,” he hisses into the phone and relishes the sharp inhalation of air on the other end. “After this job, you can consider our acquaintanceship terminated.”

“You gonna kill me, Red,” Jed asks flatly. Stiles laughs, high and cold.

“No,” he admits. “Not unless you really piss me off. But this, this is done.”

“Fair enough. I’ll email you the details of the job,” Jed says and hangs up.

Stiles stares at his phone, debating whether he’s going to throw it or not. He can afford to get it replaced but doesn’t have the time. He puts it back in his pocket, grabs his coffee, slides into his jeep. When the engine turns, he lets its soothing rumble ease the tension from his shoulders.

“That sucked major dick,” Stiles says and sips his coffee. He doesn’t like how much Jed’s betrayal affected him. He, without knowing it, had trusted the other man, to some extent. It was probably, he reflected, a good thing he wouldn’t be talking to him ever again after he got Jed’s source.

“To Beacon Hills.” He drives off through the wet Oregon rain and lets the caffeine carry him the distance to California.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I've been thrilled with the response to this story! I've worked out a writing schedule so I'll be updating at least once every two weeks, perhaps more if I get a bit more free time to write. Thank you again for reading!

Thing is, Stiles isn’t in this business for the money. It’s a perk, no way was he going to deny that, he liked to eat as much as the next guy, but it’s not the green that put him out in the field.

Which is why even the promise of a six digit paycheck isn’t enough to put a smile on his face when he shows up in Beacon Hills a day later.

“Venti coffee,” he orders from the barista. “No, wait, you’re Starbucks, you got a Trenta?”

The barista raises an eyebrow. “Want me to just dump a pot in a barrel for you?” he asks dryly. Stiles pauses.

“Can you do that?”

“One trenta coffee coming up,” the barista says, clearly in no mood to deal with Stiles’ shit.

“Fine,” Stiles mutters dumping the cost of his coffee in the man’s outstretched hand, “that’s how you wanna play it, Beacon Hills? Wanna be a dick? I can be a dick.”

Stiles, unquestionably, already hates this town. It makes his skin _itch_ in all the ways his skin shouldn’t itch. Specifically in the way it’s making several of his scars ache from the sheer supernatural aura emanating from the place. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if witches were the _least_ of these people’s problems with the magic floating all over the place.

Plus, what type of hell town only had three coffee shops? It’d taken Stiles way longer than he’d originally budgeted for locating one. Like a whole five minutes longer.

Stiles rolls his shoulders, working out the remaining kinks from a night in his car parked literally outside of Beacon Hills, and grabs his coffee before heading back outside.  It’s looking to be a rather sunny day, devoid of the clouds he’d left behind in Oregon.

He’s not meeting the pack until three, according to the file Jed had sent him, and he’s meaning to investigate the place a bit before meeting them. Stiles is reconsidering that plan, however. All of his instincts are screaming at him that this place is bad news for someone like him.

It’s not that there’s anything particularly...threatening. It’s more in the history of the place. Stiles, over the years, has learned a bit about reading the atmosphere and what he’s reading is not particularly encouraging. There’s blood here- old blood but blood nonetheless- and it’s left Beacon Hills scarred and _hungry_.

Stiles carefully tucks his aura as close as he can, feeling like parts are being stolen already by the monster lying underneath the earth. Which is silly because there aren’t any creatures that his under the earth, sucking out people’s life sources.

...he thinks. He makes a mental note to check his sources before relaxing and continuing the trek to his car. He keeps his eye on the forest lining the parking lot, half expecting a werewolf or a Wendigo to jump out and drag him off at any moment.

He feels a bit better once the door has slammed behind him and the circle of protection he’d carved into the body of his car closes around him. There’s not a lot that can get in when it’s up unless they’re clawing through the engine or the roofing.

Both happen with a frequency that’s frankly disturbing but Stiles tries not to let it bother him. It’s the best he can do. If he puts anymore magic on his baby, she’d probably stop working completely.

He settles for driving around town instead of walking, sipping his coffee with apprehension. There are places where the violence is worse- a movie rental place, a bowling alley, a fucking _high school_ \- and there’s no place that’s completely devoid of it. Or so he thinks until he’s driving past a random line of trees and suddenly he can breathe again.

Stiles slows his Jeep to a crawl and peers out into the trees. The area looks identical to every other part of the forest surrounding the town but it’s calm and wild in a way few places are anymore. The last time he’d felt this pure had been when he’d gone on a long hike through the Amazon to find a man his son after faeries had taken the boy.

He stops his car entirely, curious despite himself, and hops out, leaving his coffee in the cup holder. He sniffs the air delicately, smelling nothing but decaying leaves and fresh growth and he cocks his head in confusion. There should be smog in the air- they’re close to a roadway and a city- but there just...isn’t.  He waves his hand through the air, trying to get a hold of anything that isn’t supposed to be there but ends up feeling stupid for flailing about. He stoops and touches the ground and _listens_.

He jerks his hand back as the land fucking _zaps_ him. Stiles hops back to the asphalt blindly, shaking out the appendage, hoping he hasn’t just been cursed or some other shit. He didn’t think there were any burial grounds in the area but it’d be just  his luck if there was an unmarked one.

He looks over his hand once he’s safely off the earth and is relieved to see it was still in perfect condition, slight tingling not withstanding. Looked like it’d been more of a shock than a zap for which Stiles is grateful. Not grateful enough to kill his curiosity though.

He tentatively steps back on the earth and very delicately extends his aura. There’s a hum coming from beneath the ground. Stiles tucks his aura back in posthaste but doesn’t bother moving. 

There are ley lines running underneath Beacon Hills. That explains a lot, actually.

He’d been wondering why the entire town stank of magic and the supernatural. Ley lines were notorious for attracting just those two things in abundance. He would guess that there was a big one running right underneath the forest, saturating the earth with magical overflow in town, and smaller ones running under the high school. It’d be easy for amateurs to turn that overflow malignant, especially in areas with lots of human energy.

That didn’t explain why this area was free of that sort of corruption or why the ley line had shocked Stiles when, usually, ley lines were totally down with him rubbing all up and down them. But not these. These, while not attacking him, would not allow him to pull on them. Why?

The answer comes from the three claw marks Stiles spots on several of the trees further into the forest. He’d only seen them because he was looking and he isn’t happy to be right.

In his experience, packs don’t take kindly to interlopers finding their territory before they’re led there.

Thoughtfully, Stiles turns his back and climbs into his jeep.

 The land was claimed by the wolves and would reject anyone not associated with the pack, he bet. It was an extremely handy defense against people like Stiles or witches or things like witches. It explained why the land tasted so wild to Stiles’ senses.

It also begged the question why exactly the Hale Pack, a pack strong enough to have an actual claim on the land, needed help with a witch.

Stiles glances at his watch, brow furrowed. It’s nearly three so he starts his car. Maybe he’d find some answers once he actually meets the pack.

 

An hour later, Stiles is revising his previous optimism. To get some answers on their witch problem required the pack to actually _be there_ to answer them.

He glances at his watch and sighs when the minute hand hits the forty-five mark and there’s still no one there. He throws another glance at the waitress who’s eyeing him and the growing line at the door nervously. He’d declined to order until his “guests” got there- “How many, hun?” “Uhhh, let’s go with four? Yeah, four. Maybe more but four for now.”- but it was getting a little rude at this point. His stomach growls as if to confirm that thought and, with a sigh, Stiles raises his hand. The waitress bustles over to him, all smiles despite the anxiety he knows she’s feeling.

“How long is the wait?” Stiles asks bluntly. The woman’s smile falters for a moment before returning full force. Stiles is impressed.

“No need to worry about that, sir,” she says.

“Uh huh,” Stiles says doubtfully. He eyes the line of customers and then back to her. She’s one of two waitresses working and he can see the stress in her eyes. He smiles at her and taps his menu. “How about I order a cheeseburger and curly fries and a coke and you bring it to me when you can over at the bar? Let some family have this table since my friends seem to have stood me up.”

She looks startled and blinks slowly at him before breaking out in a more genuine, relieved smile. “That’d be a great help,” she says. “I mean if you’re not too inconvenienced by it-”

Stiles waves his hand. “Nah, my stomach was done waiting for them half an hour ago,” he tells her truthfully. He grins charmingly and stands. “I hear this place makes a mean burger and the sooner I can get that in me the better. Not that you shouldn’t take your time. I see you’re packed.”

“We’ll see what we can do about that,” she says and leads him over to the bar, sits him down, and has his coke in front of him in thirty seconds flat. 

He’s seated next to a man that smells of gun oil who is talking to a dark-haired girl who’s got strange callouses on her fingers. He thinks bow and arrow and modifies to cross bow because she looks more modern than that. They’re probably hunters, yeah, but they’re not even paying attention to him. 

Besides, their food had just arrived and if Stiles knows anything it’s that hunters value their diner food.

Another minutes goes by before a family of five has commandeered his table, a mother and father with a young man who must be their son and his two younger siblings.

“Told you it wouldn’t be that long,” the young man says. “Half hour at most.”

“Yes, yes, Danny,” the mother says, fondly exasperated. “you’re always right.”

Stiles turns back to the kitchen window and watches the chef bustle back and forth trying to shove down the ache in his heart. It’s been a long time since he’s had a family but it sneaks up on him sometimes, the loss of it all. He grabs the ketchup bottle and tries to pronounce the chemicals on the back until his food comes, hot and steaming. Then the delicious food known as curly fries distracts him entirely.

He waits the whole meal for the pack to arrive, slowing down once he’s demolished the fries and taking his time to really enjoy the burger. He tries to not get irritated but by the time Maddie the waitress has refilled his coke for a third time, he’s well on his way to pissed.

The clock reads 6:00pm.

Stiles leaves before his bad mood becomes obvious, making sure to tip Maddie handsomely for her time. She winks at him as he says goodbye and he waggles his eyebrows at her. She’s attractive, nice, and a psychology major with dreams of being the new Dr. Phil as she’d told him sometime around his second refill. If Stiles stays in town for a while he may call her with the number she’d scribbled at the top of his receipt.

He takes a moment to pull his aura back in before pushing out of the restaurant. He brushes by a group of attractive people who are all glaring angrily at one another and whisper-shouting.

“-someone hadn’t been so suspicious-”

“-back off, after the sort of week we’ve had-”

“-Well now I’m _hungry_ -”

Stiles gets into his car and drives out of Beacon Hills to a motel and checks in under a false name. He grabs his duffle out of his car and throws it into his assigned room before storming out in running shoes, Ipod clutched in one angry hand.

He runs fast and hard, trying to burn too much caffeine and irritation out of his system. Nicki Minaj growls in his ear and Stiles can’t help baring his teeth into the wind.

Yeah, someone’s chicken was fried all right.

When he gets back to the hotel room he thinks he’s cooled down enough he can communicate like a human so he dials Jed’s number and waits.

“Red,” the man growls after the second ring, “you better have a good reason for standing up the wolves.”

Stiles blinks and looses his steam because he didn’t expect that. “I stood them up?” he echoes incredulously. “I was the one waiting at the cafe for three goddamn hours. I may be being blackmailed into this job, Jed, but I still expected some fucking common courtesy.”

“You were there?” Jed asks. He sounds deflated but Stiles is unhappy still and the anger is back full force.

“If this were any other job I’d be _gone_ by now, let me tell you. Nevada? Phoenix? _Singapore?_ My time is so precious Smeagol would kill his cousin over it, okay? The least they could do was a fucking courtesy call. ‘Hey, we’re werewolves with no time-keeping abilities’ would have sufficed-”

“I’ll call you back,” Jed says and hangs up, cutting Stiles off before he could really get going.

“Rude,” Stiles huffs. He throws his phone angrily on the bed and raises his arms to the ceiling, pleading with God for strength. In the process, he catches a whiff of himself and winces.

A shower would probably help him cool down anyway. He doesn’t bother bringing his phone in because, if Jed calls back, he’s just going to have to fucking _wait_.

 

\----Now the Pack----

Derek is watching his pack demolish a plate of burgers  when his phone rings. He’s too angry after being stood up though and hands the cell to Allison who had eaten when she came to scope out the place with her Dad hours before.

Some fucking help they were getting. Couldn’t even be bothered to show up.

“Uncle Jed,” Allison answers coolly. “Any word on your wayward contact?”

“Word on my contact,” Jed says and Derek, with his supernatural hearing, can hear how irritated the older man is. “yes. Unfortunately for you, he wasn’t so wayward. He says he stuck around for three hours before getting sick of waiting for _you_.”

“That can’t be,” Allison protests. “We’ve had this place staked out since 2:30!”

Jed sighs. “You or the wolves, Ally?”

“My dad and I. And one of my pack members.”

“Let me guess. Your pack member human?”

Allison pauses and flicks her eyes to Derek who nods permission. “Yeah.”

“Okay, so you set up an ambush for my contact.” Jed sounds suspiciously calm.

“Not an ambush,” Allison says. “Just recon.”

“Yeah, sure. It wasn’t a power play at all.” Sarcasm drips off his voice. “You weren’t planning to surprise him with the pack to intimidate him, huh?”

“Ummmm,” Allison says intelligently.

Jed growls and Allison shuts up. “I’ll set up another meeting. Tomorrow, same place, noon. No tricks, Ally. He’s looking for wolves and he’s not going to announce himself to anyone else. Got it?”

“Fine,” Allison says after checking with Derek. “But we really didn’t see him here, Uncle Jed.”

Jed snorts. “Yeah, well, you’ll see him tomorrow if you _do as I say_.” The man hangs up on the last word leaving Allison scowling at her phone.

“He was here?” Isaac asks around a mouthful of burger. “But we didn’t see him come in!”

“We saw a lot of people come in,” Lydia corrects. She’s sipping delicately at her iced tea, burger pushed aside in favor of hydration. It’d been hot in the car she’d been lying in wait in. “He could have been any one of them.” She let some of her irritation leak into her voice. “Of course, if we’d known the guy’s _name_ at the very least, maybe we wouldn’t have missed him.”

“I’d feel much more comfortable if I could get some background on him,” Danny agrees. He’d sent his family home hours ago, realizing the cover they’d offered him was pointless by 5:00pm.  “See what we’re dealing with.”

“Me too,” Derek agrees. He snags a burger off Scott’s plate, giving him a look when he growls at him. Scott deflates, knowing he’s still in the doghouse after the witches. “Allison, do you think you could talk your uncle into giving us a name?”

Allison blows upwards to get her hair out of her face. “Not now. You might not have been able to tell but Uncle Jed was pissed. I think we’re just going to have to trust him.”

“‘Cause that’s worked out so well for us in the past,” Erica drawls.

“It’s not like we have much of a choice,” Isaac points out.

“We could do it alone,” Boyd says.  He shrugs when Derek glares. “Might take longer but it’s safer.”

“We don’t have longer,” Jackson snaps.

“According to Deaton,” Isaac says. “And I don’t know about you guys but I thought he was even more vague than usual this time around.”

“He doesn’t know what’s going on,” Lydia says contemptuously.

“Or he knows too much,” Derek says darkly. Scott shoots him a wounded look.

“Deaton’s on our side,” he says. 

“For a given value of ‘our side’,” Danny mutters. As the last one invited into the pack eight years ago, just before the end of senior year, he’d never developed the dependency on the vet the others had.

“We should think about what we’re going to do about the meeting tomorrow,” Allison interrupts, not willing to be sidetracked. 

“I should go,” Derek and Scott say simultaneously and then scowl at each other.

“I should go,” Derek repeats, glaring. “I’m the Alpha.”

“And I’m the one who got us into this mess,” Scott argues.

Allison is shaking her head before they can finish their arguments. “I think we should all go,” she says and holds up a hand before they can protest. Lydia steps in.

“That’d be for the best,” she says, pursing her lips. “We know now he’s able to distinguish between humans and werewolves which makes me think he either has experience or some sort of sensing ability. If it’s the former, he may be a hunter we’ll need our numbers and, if it’s the latter, he may need to see Scott to help us with our little...problem.”

Derek chews on her logic for a minute before nodding reluctantly. “Okay. But we play it safe. Lydia and I will talk to him, the rest will stay in the background looking for signs of trouble.”

The pack nods their agreement and go back to scraping ketchup onto the last of the fries.

Tomorrow. They all hope it won't be too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter feels a bit slow to me but there's a lot of important info in it so what can you do, eh? Next chapter features Derek being his usual grumpy self with outsiders and Stiles' astounding ability to talk people's ears off! As always, all comments and Kudos are met with unearthly squealing and air smooches that reach you through the void.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy, two days until my two week deadline! Next chapter will now be about two weeks from THIS chapter.   
> Thanks for all the support and bookmarks! I have been going through all of your works/favorites lists, shamelessly using you for your fanfics. It has been very enjoyable, you all have such great taste.  
> Hope you all enjoy!

Stiles stands outside the diner at twelve exactly. Jed’s clipped, email instructions had told him to be and that if he didn’t “get in there” he’d send Stiles’ real name to the Queen of England. He resents the tone (and the supposition that the freaking Queen was interested in Stiles) but is too mad to function much less argue. It doesn’t matter anyway. After this job he wouldn’t be working with the older man again.

The sun is beating down on the top of his head, pooling his shadow directly beneath his feet. He squints at the diner through the rays being reflected off the Camaro and Porsche sitting to either side of the walkway he’s standing on. No sense in procrastinating. He inhales and lets his aura out- cramped from a night of apprehensive lockdown- just a bit.

Oh.

Yeah.

Here there be werewolves.

Stiles reels his senses back in and attempts to do the same to the bitter disappointment and dread sitting heavily on his tongue. He doesn’t do face to face. He just doesn’t.

He shoves his feelings back and opens the door into the air-conditioned diner. Into the breach.

Maddie the Waitress isn’t working as far as he can tell. There’s a wait- maybe six or seven people- but even with his aura tucked in, he knows where the wolves are.

There’s more of them than he anticipated and they’re spread out instead of seated together like he’d expected. He breathes through his nose and bites his tongue. Annoying.

 There’s a table full at the other end of the restaurant and he is...surprised to see they’re the group he’d past on his way out yesterday. A woman with a shark-like air about her and a very low cut top, a black man twice Stiles’ size, a lean man with wavy hair and bright blue eyes, a man who looks, frankly, like a douchebag, and a man with dimples who is, auspiciously, the only human at their table. A smaller booth to his left has one wolf, obscured by the dim lighting and a red head who manages to make the dingy booth look like a throne. There’s a lone wolf sitting somewhat forlornly at the bar next to the woman he’d marked as a hunter yesterday. Stiles raises his eyebrows.

So many choices. He heads for the most interesting option, bypassing the wait entirely. A man towards the front of the line glares but Stiles pays him no mind. It wasn’t like his family of four could fit at the single open barstool anyway.

“Could I get a cheeseburger, curly fries and a coke?” he asks the waitress behind the counter. She looks harried and he almost feels bad for popping up on her. He thinks about telling her to take her time but she’s already spinning away, barking his order to the cook before hurrying off to another table. He shrugs and sits quietly, waiting for his drink and food.

The werewolf beside him is staring down at a Reuben like it’s his dead grandmother and fallen ice cream cone all in one. His hair is dark and flops attractively over his forehead as his sighs, uneven jaw clenching in what Stiles reads to be a mixture of self-loathing and self- pity. He’s handsome enough Stiles might have been interested if it weren’t for the fact he was a werewolf, looked like a kicked puppy and had a band on his ring finger that matched the beautiful hunter on his other side.

“This place seems pretty popular,” he says, spinning a bit on his barstool with nervous energy. He stops as soon as he catches himself and sips his freshly arrived coke instead. He’d had ADHD as a kid until his hormones had stabilized as well as his magic. He’s been trying to kick his fidgeting habits for years. A lot of supernatural types saw fidgeting as a sign of weakness and that, in this business, was very, very dangerous.

Stiles needn’t have bothered with this one. The werewolf is fiddling with his fries. As Stiles watches, he piles one on top of the other and then another on top of that. He’s got a stack of six fries- three more than Stiles thought he could have managed- when the woman to his other side reaches over and very casually knocks them all over in her pursuit of the salt.

The werewolf makes a sound as if he’s been shot which is completely inappropriate for a man in his mid twenties. The woman rolls brown, intelligent eyes and looks over at Stiles.

“Sorry about him,” she says. “He’s approximately two years old.”

“Do you think he can make a house?” Stiles asks. The woman’s face falls as the man’s turns contemplative.

“I don’t know,” says the man. “I’ve eaten all the good ones for that but I can try.”

“He’s got spatial awareness and logic” Stiles tells the woman, with a grin. “That makes him at least five or so according to Piaget. I’m Red,” he says and waits.

“I’m Scott,” the wolf says, holding out a hand for Stiles to shake awkwardly. “This is my wife, Allison.”

Stiles’ brain stutters and screeches to a halt.

That was... not the reaction he’d been anticipating.  Do they not know he’s their contact? Even if they didn’t they should know it anyway. He was pretty big in certain supernatural circles. Wasn’t he? Maybe he was just being arrogant. Stiles can’t help but deflate at that. He’d worked _hard_ on his reputation. 

“So...yeah,” says Scott uncertainly and Stiles realizes he’s been staring at them oddly for a number of moments. He rubs a hand against the back of his head and  grins a little sheepishly.

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles says. He doesn’t try to shake her hand. In his experience most hunters won’t on principle, but it’s also an even awkwarder angle than the shake he’d had with Scott.

Awkward. Awkward-ed. Awkwarder.

He can see that, despite his smile’s track record, she is not as charmed as she could be. Instead she is looking at her husband somewhat fondly and also somewhat disapprovingly. Scott seems to sense this and wilts, knocking over the second tower of fries he’d been working on.

“Enjoy your meal,” Allison tells him pleasantly. Stiles turns just as the waitress sets down his burger and blinks in surprise at the steaming food. 

Okay, so conversation over.

Stiles takes an uneasy bite of his burger. Were all face to faces this awkward? How did anybody get anything done?

He felt somehow that he’d missed his only opportunity to introduce himself. What was he supposed to say now?

_So, hey,  I’m the magic consultant you’re waiting for. Yeah, for your werewolf problems. YOUR WEREWOLF PROBLEMS. Oh, you don’t like announcing that to the whole town? It’s okay or Jed would have told you my FUCKING NAME-_

“I’m who you’re looking for,” he blurts out before the circle of stupidity can continue.

“What?” says Scott, brows pinching down in confusion.

“You’re...the one we’re looking for,” Allison repeats. She’s got one eyebrow raised and that’s a lot of skepticism to fit in six words. Stiles would take offense if he wasn’t feeling pretty skeptical himself.

“Yeah,” he says. He glances around and scoots in towards Scott. He ignores the way Scott scoots away from him. “A, uh, mutual acquaintance, uh, set this up.”

“Uh...huh,” says Scott. He looks very confused.

“Gosh,” Stiles says. “Our friend said he’d be discrete but this goes above and beyond. I’m here to solve all your problems.”

Allison’s face suddenly melts into the shock of recognition and Stiles settles back triumphantly. Communicating in code is never easy but he’s gratified it work.

“Okay,” says Allison. “Right, well thanks but no thanks.”

Stiles gapes unattractively at her for a moment. No- _what?_

“Are you shitting me?” Stiles asks. “I drive all the way out here for a meeting and now you’re saying the deal’s off? What, did you get someone else? Was it Kenneth? I swear if it’s Kenneth-”

“No, we just don’t need you,” Allison says. She sounds like she’s getting pissed too. “Or anyone like you, for that matter. What our friend was thinking is beyond me.”

He’d expected the treatment having gotten the same reaction from a couple other packs over his career. They didn’t like people like him getting all up in their business but this is different. He’s never had to deal with this shit in _person_ after being fucking blackmailed to help.

“Listen here, Allison,” Stiles spits. “I’m here to do you a fucking favor-”

“We don’t need it,” Allison says in a high voice. “Trust me the last thing we need-”

“Stop, stop!” Scott says. He holds a hand out to each of them. He looks between the two of them looking even more lost than usual. “What do you mean you’re here to do us a favor?” he asks Stiles.

“Careful there,” he tells Scott. “You get anymore confused and you’ll hurt yourself. And I mean just that. To do you a favor. A favor after which you pay me a lot of money and I go away so _Allison_ here doesn’t gave to see me ever again.” 

Allison glares at him while Scott continues to be completely without a clue. Stiles takes an angry gulp of coke.

“Like a...sexual favor?” Scott asks hesitantly. 

Stiles spits Coke all over him, eyes watering as some forces it’s way out of his nose.

“What- the- I, what?” Stiles is very coherent. He’s very proud of his linguistic skills. He breathes in deeply and turns wide eyes on Allison who is trying to mop up the front of her blouse. “ _Excuse me.”_

“You’re excused,” she says snidely. “Now fuck off.” She gives up on her blouse and hands Scott the napkin so he can wipe his face.

“ _I am not a hooker_ ,” Stiles says in a very, extremely manly voice. He sees Scott wince. _“I am not a hooker.”_

Allison looks taken aback. “But you said-”

“ _I am not a hooker_ ,” Stiles says again because those words cannot be said enough. “ _WhywouldyouthinkIwasahooker.”_

“To be fair,” Scott says diplomatically, “You did say you were told to come here by an acquaintance to do us a favor that would fix all our problems for a lot of money-”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” says Stiles and stands. He clutches his plate of fries and burger in one hand and his coke in the other. “I can’t deal with you two, I am _leaving_ to talk to other werewolves.” He storms off at their shocked looks but turns back around at the least second. 

“ _I am not a hooker_ ,” he hisses one last time, face very red. 

He practically runs to the other side of the room and, face burning, slides into the booth with the Goddess and the werewolf. Without looking at them, he drops his plate and drink on the table and scoots onto the cool seat with his back to Allison and Scott.

“...hello,” says the Goddess.  Her tone tells him he’d better explain why he was disturbing her immediately but Stiles needs a minute and, to be fair, it looks like her werewolf partner needs a minute as well. The other man has got his head in his hands like he can’t believe this is his life.

Stiles knows the feeling intimately.

“Can I assume you’re our contact?” the redhead inquires. She raises one perfectly sculpted brow. “Or do you make a habit of table crashing in diners?”

“Make a habit, no,” Stiles says. “though this is twice today so don’t hold it against me if that changes. Please, for the love of my sanity, tell me you’re with the wolves Jed said I’d be meeting because I don’t think my fragile constitution can handle being propositioned again.”

There’s an affronted huff from across the diner that causes the dark-haired wolf in front of Stiles to sigh heavily.

“Again?” the redhead asks lightly. She looks to her werewolf seat partner who raises his head reluctantly.

_Sweet battered pixie corpses_ , Stiles thinks. _He’s hot_. Then he made a note to himself to never use “sweet battered pixie corpses” out loud. It was a story you really had to be there for and Stiles, if he had his way, would never be there for it again. The sheer amount of whipped cream-

Anyway.

Hotty Hot Hotterson snorts. “Allison and Scott thought Erica had hired a prostitute.”

The redhead raises an eyebrow. “Ah.” She seems to get more out of that one sentence than Stiles but he isn’t going to ask to be filled in. He doesn’t really want to know why Erica would buy a prostitute for her friends or why neither one of the two people in front of him were surprised by it.

“He’s not well dressed enough to be a prostitute,” the redhead says and flips her hair over her shoulder. Stiles’ mouth pops open.

“I’ll have you know,” he splutters, “that this shirt is from _Target_.”

“I know,” she says, “I can tell.”

“A lot of people would be thrilled to pay money for my services-”

“We are paying you money for your services,” she points out.

“My _sexual_ services-”

“Not a _lot_ of money,” she says and Stiles stops to take a deep breath. She’s fucking with him, he can tell she is, and he doesn’t have time for this. They’re not friends and he can’t afford to _banter_ like they are. He wipes the offended look off his face and tries to go for something more professional.

“We can argue exactly how much I’d be worth as a prostitute later,” he says. “Can we talk freely here?” He doesn’t want to have to try and talk around the subject again.

“Yes,” says the werewolf and nothing more. Stiles raises an eyebrow and glances at the redhead.

“The booth’s warded,” she says and slides a piece of paper over to him. There’s a sequence of runes on it that, once activated, sets up a sort of muffled area that people outside can’t understand. He can tell the paper is just a duplicate but it doesn’t matter. Now that he’s seen the set up it’s easy to pull the ward out from the hum of magic floating through the town. He tastes it for a minute and gives it a little boost. It makes the redhead jump but not too badly so he doesn’t address it. Now the hum is louder than the drone of they ley lines.

The redhead nods in acknowledgement, composure recovered.  “Shall we get down to business?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “But I think some introductions are in order, don’t you?”

“Names aren’t necessary,” the wolf growls. Stiles blinks at him and narrows his eyes. There’s a flash of red swimming in and out of the other’s gaze and Stiles could batter a few pixies himself. This is an alpha werewolf and he’s never been fond of dealing with them or them with him regardless of attractiveness.

“They’re not,” Stiles agrees but refuses to be intimidated, “but I can’t keep calling you Hot Werewolf Guy.” The redhead snorts but the red flashes a bit brighter and Stiles can feel his magic rise up to his skin in challenge. With effort he draws it back in and holds up his hands placatingly. “Or I can, I’m flexible like that and in other ways if you want full disclosure-”

“Lydia Martin,” the redhead introduces before he can proposition an alpha werewolf. “This is my alpha, Derek Hale.” She holds out a perfectly manicured hand to him. Clearly she doesn’t have a lot of experience with witches if she’s willing to make skin on skin contact with full names. 

“Red,” he says, reaching out to shake the offered hand. It’s only because he’s touching her that he feels the slight tensing at hearing his name. He raises his eyebrows. “Problem?”

“Not at all,” Lydia Martin says easily. She smiles. “Red is a stripper name.”

Stiles throws his hands up in the air. “Can we get away from the hooker thing? Please? Can we just get to business?”

“I suppose,” Lydia says, looking terribly amused. “How much do you know?”

“Witches,” he says and shrugs. “They got something of yours? Honestly I didn’t ask for a lot of details.” He’d been too busy being absolutely furious at Jed. “But, you know. _Witches_. Rhymes with bitches for a reason.”

“Well we know now,” Lydia says briskly. “Four days ago, one of our more...inept pack members,” there’s an offended protest from the bar, “went out of town on a small business trip.”

“He’s a vet,” Derek says. “It was a house call.”

Lydia nods. “It was an ambush.” She doesn’t mince words. “He was taken and kept sedated for twelve hours until his wife liberated him.”

“The hunter,” Stiles says. He throws a quick glance at the couple over his shoulder. Allison is glaring at her husband and eating his sandwich. “Out of curiosity, how does that even work?”

“None of your business,” Derek says. Stiles can tell Derek’s really a softie. Deep down. Deep, deep down. Twenty thousand leagues under the sea, Marianas Trench deep. Possibly deeper.

“How’d you know she was a hunter?” Lydia asks. There’s a calculating glint in her eye that makes Stiles feel wary.

“The sheer blood lust,” he says and he’s not entirely lying. “So white knight saves poor puppy. Then what?”

“Then nothing,” Derek says. His thick eyebrows are low on his forehead and his fingers are clenched into a fist on the tabletop. “We didn’t realize anything was wrong until Allison brought Scott back.”

“We don’t know exactly what they took,” Lydia says, eyes flicking to Derek. “Just that they did take something from him.”

Stiles...really hopes they’re not telling him what he thinks they’re telling him.

“Okay,” he says, “let’s play twenty questions. Is this something bigger than a breadbox?”

Lydia cocks her head. “Metaphorically or literally?”

Oh god, there’s a metaphorical. Stiles is not going to be having a good time.

“What were Scott’s symptoms?” he asks instead of bashing his head against the nearest hard surface. It’s a tie between the table and Derek’s abs- what he can see of them through his tight black tshirt. Somehow he doesn’t think Derek would appreciate that as much as Stiles would.

“Symptoms?” Lydia asks, face open with confusion. Stiles isn’t an idiot.

“You can play coy all you want,” he tells her, “but that won’t help me help you. What tipped you off that the witches had taken something? Moreover was it a coven or one witch in particular? I need details.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him, letting the innocent act go. “Derek?”

“He can’t call on his wolf,” Derek says. There’s less growl in his voice but Stiles still catches the threat in it. “His pack bonds are blocked but not disconnected. No one can access them. Allison said there were four people in the building when she got there. She doesn’t know if they were all witches or not. Scott was the one who identified the first as a witch.”

“How?” Stiles demands before he can think. The werewolf growls a bit at the order and Stiles backs up before he can get eaten. “I mean, do you know how he was able to identify her as a witch?”

“We’ve had encounters with witches before,” Derek says.

“Practice has not made perfect,” Lydia says. She takes a sip of her drink somehow managing to not leave a lipstick print on the straw. “Scott also said she had designs painted with herbs and oil on her arms. Basil. Cayenne. Ginger.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “Yeah, that’s a witch, or something so close to a witch it doesn’t matter. I’m gonna have to have a look at the victim.”

“Why?”

Stiles is getting kind of tired of Derek. He isn’t even that attractive with that angry expression and those eyebrows.

Okay, that was a lie. Stiles had to keep it in his pants somehow though.

He’d totally ride those eyebrows. Oh god, thank whatever deity looking out for Stiles’ hide that werewolves couldn’t read minds.

Stiles clears his throat. “I need to know what they took. Exactly what they took. Only then can I do my thing and get it back for you.”

“Fine,” Derek says like it costs him something.

“But not now,” Lydia says quickly. Derek looks at her eyebrows raised. “We have our own magic user, our emissary. Any examination will have to be supervised by him.” Derek had relaxed as she continued to talk and, although he didn’t look any happier, he looked less likely to maim Stiles. Stiles could respect their caution. He’d probably do the same.

“Is he going to keep all this on the down low?” Stiles asks.

“Deaton is very discrete,” Lydia says.

“Too discrete,” Derek says but he sounds resigned rather than angry.

“No such thing,” Stiles objects and takes a big bite of his burger. It tastes even better than yesterday and he moans around the flavor. “When do you want to do this thing?”

There’s silence from across the table and Stiles looks to see Derek and Lydia staring at him with some fascination. Or disgust. Stiles swallows and sips his drink nervously.

“Soooo,” he says, “time?”

“Now,” Derek says.

“Sooner the better,” Lydia agrees. They both edge out of the booth and stand. Stiles pauses at their expectant looks, burger halfway to his mouth.

“I’ll just take this to go,” he says with a sigh.

“You do that,” Derek says.


	4. Snow White and the Huntsman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I'm so fucking late D: IF you don't want to hear excuses, just go on and skip to reading this lovely, nearly 3,000 word chapter!  
> If you'd like excuses, keep reading.  
> My quarter at school just started and I was very busy. I also got the first bout of flu this year so that was also fun. Get your flu shots.  
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter! I know it's still a little slow but I promise it'll pick up very very soon!

“Aw, no,” Stiles says. He looks at the open container of fries in his hand to the ‘NO FOOD, NO DRINK’ sign taped to the front of the veterinary clinic. “Seriously?”

“We have to keep it sterile,” Scott apologizes. He’d driven with Allison and two of the other wolves and was now standing next to Stiles, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“It’ll go bad in my car,” Stiles complains.

“Then throw it away,” Alpha Hales says, standing next to Lydia, teeth bared with impatience. Stiles is starting to wonder if the guy was more wolf than human. You know what they said, animal in the streets, animal in the sheets.

Oh god, Stillinski, seriously? Keep it in your pants.

He puts his food on the driver’s seat, cramming as many curly fries into his mouth as humanly possible. This, as it so happens, was quite a lot. He munches on his horde happily and joins the wolves inside the clinic.

He manages to not choke on his fries when a short, black man suddenly appears from the back, frowning passively at them and wiping his hands on a paper towel. He does however swallow them before he’s finished chewing them, causing his throat to stretch uncomfortably on the way down. He winces with pain and rubs at his neck.

“Ow,” he complains.

Everyone is looking at him. Derek in particular seems fairly incredulous.

Stiles wipes his hands on his pants, shifting his weight from ball to heel. He was a professional, goddamnit. He tries to school his expression into something appropriately grave. “So your emissary’s a Druid. That’s cool.” Silence. He clears his throat. “Hi, I’m Red.”

Never mind the secret identity issue. This was why he didn’t do face-to-face.

“Alan Deaton,” the Druid says. There’s amusement in his voice but none shows on his face which Stiles expects. Druids are tricky even when they don’t need to be. Then the name registers and Stiles frowns.

He’s heard of Alan Deaton.

He examines the man again and bumps his age up another decade and a half. He’s supposed to be in his late fifties or so but he looks no older than forty which is why Stiles hadn’t thought it was him. He’d been the original Hale Pack Emissary, before the fire, and had been a large part of the reason why the Hales were the undisputed leaders of the west. No one had heard from him since the fire. Most thought he’d burned with them.

Stiles wonders what it says about the man that he hadn’t.

He wonders if Derek Hale knows what it means that the emissary lived while the Alpha died. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Stiles pastes a grin on his face. This was just a job, in and out in no time. He wasn’t going to get himself involved.

Still.

“I’ve heard of you,” he says with false cheer. “You’ve been the Hale Emissary for quite some time haven’t you?” His eyes are cold despite his smile and he can feel the way Deaton’s aura tenses and bristles.

“I’ve never heard of you,” Deaton says similarly pleasantly. Stiles’ smile widens. Deaton is a terrible liar.

“I try to remain under the radar.” _We both know that isn’t true but if it was it’s because I’m better than you._

“I’m sure that’s not difficult for you.” _You’re so powerless the radar doesn’t even bother._

 Stiles bristles and opens his mouth to say something suitably scathing but doesn’t get the chance.

“Girls, girls,” a female voice placates from behind. “No need to fight. We all know I’m the prettiest.”

Stiles turns to the hot blond werewolf in the low cut top. Her smoky eyes are sharp with mocking laughter and her teeth are bared in a ruby-red smile. He is not going to fuck with that.

He’s opening his mouth to say as much when Derek interrupts him.

“Erica,” he growls in warning and the blonde woman flips her hair. Derek’s eyebrows snap down and he rubs at the bridge of his nose in seeming defeat. He turns to Deaton. “We need you to watch him,” he jerks a thumb in Stiles’ direction.

“While he examines Scott,” Lydia elaborates.

“Ah,” Deaton says. He turns on his heel, throwing the towel over his shoulder, and goes back through the swinging door he’d entered from. Stiles makes a face at his back and quickly schools his expression into neutrality before anyone can see.

Stiles can’t believe that he’s never met a Druid he’s liked when they’re all this charming.

Scott follows after Deaton blindly, dragging Allison after him. Lydia, Erica and the huge man (her husband? They had matching bands) push in after them.

“Go,” Derek commands irritably from _right fucking behind him_. Stiles reacts automatically, foot pulling up in preparation for a truly impressive mule kick, hands working as a counterbalance in front of his face. Then he realizes _oh shit, Alpha werewolf_ and he nearly falls trying to jump forward instead because he doesn’t feel like getting ripped to fucking shreds.

In the end, he ends up nearly face planting into the ground and having to take several large goose steps, half bent over, to avoid breaking his nose _again_. He finally catches himself on the wall next to the door and spins, hands up, ready to defend himself if need be.

Derek Hale raises one eyebrow at him.

“I’m just gonna,” Stiles says intelligibly and flees into the back room the others had disappeared into. He think he imagines the huff of laughter that follows him. Derek doesn’t seem much like the laughing type.

The back room smells heavily of sterilizing agents and there’s stainless steel everywhere. The wolves are grouped around an examination table and talking quietly. There’s a door beyond them where Stiles can hear various animal noises, leading him to believe that was where the patients were kept. There’s the faint thrum of magic, telling Stiles that the place is warded but not to the point that the electronics would stop working. Deaton is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Deaton?” Derek asks. He pushes past Stiles to join his pack and Stiles shivers at the wave of heat. Fucker is like nuclear reactors, he swears.

“Just grabbing some stuff from his office,” Scott says, “for the examination.” he says the last word like a death sentence.

Stiles would offer some words of comfort but he’s stuck on what exactly a Druid could be grabbing to supervise a non-corporeal exam. He crosses his arms defensively over his chest. He doesn’t think the wolves will allow the Druid to interfere or harm him in any way. He’s pretty sure anyway.

“So how do you want him?” Allison’s strident voice jerks him from his reverie and Stiles blinks several times.

“I’m still not a hooker,” he says before he can parse her meaning and immediately turns bright red at her shocked look. “I’m, uh, that’s not what you were saying.”

Erica grins. “Hey let’s not take it off the table quite yet. Although, if you’re too shy, I could name some people I can call to stand in.”

Her husband settles a large hand on her back while Scott and Allison spluttered. “No,” he says simply. Erica scowls at him.

“But-”

“No.”

“Isaac-”

“No.”

“You are so aggravating,” Erica hisses but leans back into him for a moment, undermining her words.

Both Scott and Allison had flushed at the mention of Isaac, whoever that was, and Stiles notes it with interest. He would ask but Scott’s looking more hangdog than ever and Stiles kind of likes the dude even after only knowing him for a very short while. It’s probably hard for people not to like him. Like not liking kittens or something.

“I think laying down will be best,” Stiles says, “On the exam table. I need to stand.”

“Why laying down?” Allison asks, one hand stopping Scott from hopping up immediately on the table. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“It’s either that or fall down. I don’t know how he’ll react to the exam.”

She tenses. “You think it’ll hurt him?”

“No,” Stiles says and it’s not a lie. He knows it will hurt him, unfortunately, but like hell is he gonna announce that to a room full of werewolves, a druid, whatever the hell Lydia is, and a hunter. He’ll cross that particular bridge when he comes to it.

Stiles is very good at procrastinating.

Deaton comes back into the room carrying several books and an odd magnifying glass. Stiles can tell all of the things are crawling with magic and he frowns.

“You can’t have that stuff in here,” he says. “It’s gonna mess with my stuff. And things. My stuff and things.”

Deaton raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” He sets the items on one of the low shelves around the room, keeping the magnifying glass. He waves his hand over the rest with a few mumbled words and suddenly Stiles can’t feel them at all.

Stiles, against his will, is impressed. Deaton, by the amused look on his face, knows it.

“Nice,” Stiles says because he’s not above giving credit where credit is due and he knows Deaton knows he knows. “Can’t say I’ve seen that one before.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Deaton says. Stiles’ ire at the man rises again at the snub. He’d meant his admission to be a peace offering but apparently Deaton is content being a dick. He decides to be the bigger man and ignore it.

Stiles instead uses his senses to check out the magnifying glass. It’s got magic on it but not nearly enough to disrupt Stiles’ process. He snorts at what he finds. The glass is charmed so that anyone who looks through it can see spells and active runes. It’s amateur, in Stiles opinion, and the fact that Deaton has it tells Stiles that the Druid isn’t as comprehensive as the rumors have led him to believe.

“You may begin,” Deaton says. Stiles, still cheered by the man’s lack of omnipotence, moves over to where Scott is laying down without comment.

“Alright,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “You may feel a slight pinch.” With only that as a warning, he pushes his magic into Scott as gently as he can manage.

Scott begins to convulse on the table and screams like Stiles has lit him on fire.

Okay, so Stiles had known it was going to hurt but he didn’t expect _this_. He wasn’t that big of a dick, he would have warned him if he’d known.

Stiles is ripped away from Scott so hard he bounces against the back wall and collapses to the ground. He jack knifes to his feet, hands in front of his face, because even if he did deserve to get bashed he wasn’t going to just let it happen. The huge man is the one who threw him and he’s following it up with his teeth, by the looks of it. Stiles hauls off and slugs hum in the face before his giant arms can wrap around him. Something cracks but Stiles can’t be bothered because the other guy is gearing up for round two and-

“Boyd!”

The huge man shifts back to human instantly, hands dropping to his side. The bruise on his jaw is disappearing already. Stiles rocks on his feet but doesn’t dare lower his guard. He’d thought Scott was Derek’s second in command but he’d obviously been wrong judging by this one’s speed.

He didn’t like being wrong.

“That’s enough,” Derek continues. His eyes are bright red when he turns them on Stiles. “You’ve got thirty seconds to explain what that was.”

Stiles wants to sneer at the threat. He’s never handled intimidation well and he’s shaky from the magical backlash and the ensuing physical attack. But he knows the Alpha deserves an explanation and knows Derek’s being generous asking for one when one of his betas is gasping on the exam table.

“I didn’t realize he was a fucking open wound,” Stiles says. “I would never have just stuck my hand in like that if I’d known.”

Okay, it’s not his best explanation ever but it wasn’t like he’d gotten anything more than a quick peek before literally being launched across the room.  This, he decides, this is the reason why he hates face to face.

“What do you mean an open wound?” Allison asks. She’s clutching the upper half of Scott to her chest while he pants. He looks pale and shock-y under his tan though not nearly as pale as his wife. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Stiles says and flails a little when he tries to wave his hand and instead it feels like it’s on fire. Oh yeah, he’s definitely broken it. He lets it drop to his side and resolves to fix it later when there isn’t an angry pack of werewolves in the room.

“He’s telling the truth,” Deaton says. He twirls the Magnifying glass idly. “He simply touched Scott with his magic, not a spell.”

“See?” Stiles says and waves at the vet with his good hand. “I did nothing, nada, less than anyone has ever done so could you all stop looking like I’m five seconds away from being murdered-”

“You said open wound,” Lydia reminds him. 

Stiles frowns at her. “Yeah, I did. I was looking for something missing. Witches, they’re all about power. They can take emotions sometimes, if they’re strong enough, and use them in place of power. I thought maybe they’d taken whatever he used as his anchor-”

“I’m his anchor,” Allison says. “But he hasn’t been acting any differently towards me.”

“As I said I _thought_ they might have taken his anchor,” Stiles says. “They didn’t. If they had Scott wouldn’t have reacted like that to a simple probe.”

He stares at Scott, ignores the way the others are looking at him. His hand is a dull ache by his side and he raises it irritably to heal it. Several of his metacarpals are broken and it’s child’s play to send a rush of magic through them so they’ll heal.

His magic knows his body completely, has it’s own map of every nook and cranny so it takes almost no effort for him to heal. But with Scott, it didn’t have a map, it needed to make one for the scan. His mind races.

“My magic was supposed to map him, internally,” he mutters, unconsciously thinking out loud. He steps towards Scott, running an eye over him contemplatively.  “Dreams, ambitions, fears, all things witches like to toy with. But it didn’t map, it hurt him like touching a nerve ending. Why didn’t it map him?”

He sucks in a breath at the same time as Deaton.

“Shit,” Stiles says.

“That is rather serious,” Deaton agrees and Stiles is too horrified to be properly smug that the Druid finally agreed with him.

“What?” Derek growls. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I couldn’t scan him,” Stiles says, “because there was nothing there to scan. The witches didn’t just take a chip. They took the whole fucking bag.”

“But I’m still here,” Scott says, confused. “I mean, I think I am.” He looks to his wife for confirmation.

“I think we need a better explanation than a chip analogy,” Lydia says.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, still kind of freaking out. “Okay, um, think of it this way. Emotions, thoughts, everything is stored in the brain, yeah? Through neural pathways and synapses and all that crazy stuff. You know how you feel about something because you remember liking it before. But there’s a catch because the brain doesn’t choose to feel emotions, it just stores them. All the feelings come from another part. That’s why he’s not acting any different because his brain is still fine but that other part is gone. The witches took it.”

“Are you trying to tell me that witches took his _heart_?” Lydia asks incredulously. “Because that’s what it sounds like you’re saying.”

“Well,” Stiles says, “not _literally_.”

He knew that that metaphorical was going to suck.

 


	5. The Dawn of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is beginning to think he needs to keep a notebook of all the ways the Pack is setting themselves up to get fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeey, guyyyys, I really appreciate all of you who have stuck it out this far! Though none of you have asked I will tell you what's going on. I've decided to drop out of school to pursue work as a medical technician. You can imagine how enthused my friends and family are.   
> But thank god for Teen Wolf, am I right? Anyway, here's a new chapter! Thanks again!

 

“You’re going to have to run that by me again,” Isaac, the curly-haired werewolf, says calmly. He’s standing with his arms crossed in front of a graveyard and looks pretty intimidating all of a sudden. It’s shocking to Stiles at least, the rest of the pack seems to be on the same wavelength.

“Remember I’m here to help, yeah?” Stiles says, eyeing the shovel clenched in the taller man’s fist. “On a different note, what’s the shovel for, buddy? Not the shovel talk, I hope, because I’m pretty sure you’re too young to have a kid I’d be interested in-”

“Isaac is the caretaker,” Derek says to Stiles.

“Family business,” Isaac says with a mean smile. “I can show you more after you tell me what the fuck you meant when you said the witches have Scott’s heart.” Suddenly he doesn't look so sweet anymore. Not as cherubic as the curls had implied.

“I honestly don’t know how to explain that anymore clearly than I already have,” Stiles says. He’s itchy and wants to fight even though his mind is telling him that’s a bad idea. “The witches took the metaphorical heart right of Scott’s chest for, I assume, nefarious purposes. Now I have to play the wizard to his Tin Man and, let me tell you, I’ve had a fear of hot air balloons ever since-”

“Enough,” Derek interrupts for the second time. “Everyone else is on the way,” Derek tells Isaac. “Can we use the house? I don’t want him,” he jerked his thumb at Stiles, “on pack land.”

“The servants use the back entrance,” Stiles mutters.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Isaac says. He lopes up to Lydia and takes the lead. “No funerals today so it’s empty. Wards might need a touch up though. Buried that fey last month and the attendees wreaked havoc on them.”

Stiles blinks, following behind them. “You buried a fey? Here? On this land? And they _let_ you?”

“They were part fey,” Lydia says, not bothering to turn around. “The human family members had a plot here and they let us line it with iron. We’re not amateurs.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Stiles says. He shoves his hands into his pockets and fingers the iron on his keys. “Just not a risk I’d take.” Fey bones, even part-fey bones, were valuable. If anyone else knew they were intact and not burned, they’d come for them.

“Good thing we’re not you,” Derek growls from behind him.

Stiles picks up his pace a little and doesn’t speak for the remainder of the walk.

The Hales are powerful but they seem to make a lot of mistakes. Scott leaving town to meet with witches, the fuck up with the diner, the shaky alliance with the Druid and now Fey bones in their territory.

_Arrogant_ , Stiles thinks as they pass another grave that smells like Underhill. _Too arrogant_.

He thinks if he voices his thoughts Derek will tear him apart so he doesn’t. He’s got one job and one job only. If they end up getting killed afterwards that’s no skin off his nose.

He tries not to think about all the times it was skin off his nose.

The house is exactly what Stiles expects from a cemetery of this size. Three stories but relatively narrow, drab paint, white flowers out front. It’s well taken care of but understated. The Porsche from the diner is already sitting out front, Erica, Boyd and the douchebag who must be Jackson standing next to it.

“Why the hell did we walk?” Stiles asks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t let himself feel too badly. It’s a decent question considering the car in front of the house.

“Because,” Lydia says pleasantly, “If you think I’d let any of the magic you have in your jeep near the entirety of my pack, you’re an even bigger idiot than I’d thought.”

Stiles stares at her lightly curled hair. “Okay, I give up. What are you?” No magic user he’d ever met had had the ability to sense the failsafe in his jeep.

“None of your fucking business,” Isaac snaps at him.

Stiles thinks he and Isaac are going to be great friends.

“Soulless!Scott says they’re about two minutes out,” Erica says as they approach. “Danny’s bringing the bestiary, just in case.”

“He’s not technically soulless,” Stiles feels the need to point out. “I mean he can still use his heart. It’s just not in his possession.”

“Wow,” Erica says, “And I thought this couldn’t get any more confusing.”

Stiles does jazz hands. “Welcome to the wonderful world of the metaphorical.”

The front steps creak as they walk up them, Derek trailing behind. Stiles hopes the other man enjoys a face full of ass because that’s exactly what he’s getting with how close he’s following him. Of course, there were other, better situations where his ass could become better acquainted-

Stiles jerks his mind away from that particular track and takes in the interior of the house. The parlor is big and filled with antique furniture in soothing blues. There are actual gas light along the walls although they’re turned off in the daytime. He sees stairs across from the living room which he assumes go up to bedrooms.

“Oh my, what do we have here?”

Stiles jumps, heart pounding and whirls towards the living room. An attractive, older man is lounging by the fireplace, directly in Stiles’ line of sight. Stiles hadn’t seen him. He breathes in deeply, wills his magic to stop buzzing under his skin.

He hadn’t sensed the man either. He tentatively reaches out with his aura, testing for the wards the man must have to avoid attention.

“Oh yeah,” Isaac says to Derek, “Peter’s here.”

There’s... nothing there. Just a hole. A gaping, disgusting, slimy hole. The buzzing returns full force to the point his skin is crawling with it.

He wants to smash it. He wants to kill it. He wants to get away from it.

Only one of those option will keep him from getting mauled by a room full of werewolves.

“Yeah, okay, no,” Stiles says. He rubs his hands briskly over his jeans and pivots sharply on his heel. “I am not doing this. The fey bones were one thing but this, this is majorly fucked.”

Derek throws out an arm, blocking the entirety of the hallway. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Stiles feels like a live wire. He’s hyper aware of the, the _thing_ at his back and the other pack members tensing up. His vision narrows on Derek and the door just beyond him. Fighting an Alpha werewolf wasn’t easy but-

The door opens and the three remaining pack members walk in. They come to a stop just behind Derek, wary, sensing the tension in the air.

“What’s going on?” Scott asks.

Stiles is about to fucking lose it. “What’s going on is that I’m not fucking dealing with the dead _and_ witches in the same job. Get out of my way.”

Derek puffs up and flashes his eyes, obviously taking offense at the command. “No.”

“You agreed to help us,” Lydia says. Stiles turns so he can look at her. Her eyes are dark. “You know what the consequences will be if you don’t.”

Looking away from Derek was a mistake. The man uses his superior bulk to herd Stiles back into the living room, closer to the abomination. Stiles moves so he can keep them all in his line of sight, no easy task in such a small room.

“I’ll help,” Stiles says. His hand drifts to the gun at the small of his back. “But not with that thing around.”

The man in question tsks. He pushes off the wall and starts walking around the sofa, hand extended. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Peter Hale.”

Stiles draws before he makes it five feet. “Take another step,” he says. “Do it.”

Peter does not take another step but begins to examine his nails as if that was his intention all along. Stiles isn’t buying it. He cocks his gun.

“Your consultant just drew on a pack member,” Allison says sharply. Stiles shifts slightly so he can see her out of his peripherals. She’s talking into her phone while scowling at Stiles. In her other hand is a gun. Multi-tasker. Stiles can respect that. “I thought you said he was trustworthy.”

Stiles would snort if he wasn’t busy weighing his options. Pull the trigger, very likely to get torn apart. Don't and still likely to get torn apart, especially with the way the pack was now tensed to spring. He didn’t even know if his bullets would hurt it, it wasn’t _natural_ it was a greedy, sucking _hole_ in the world and-

“It’s for you,” Allison says. She offers the phone.

Stiles holds out his hand and snaps. With a frustrated sigh, Allison tosses the phone to him, keeping away from his perimeter.

Then he turns on the spot, drawing up the strongest silence wards he can manage. Lydia rears back as if struck, blinking fiercely and confirming the mage sight he'd suspected. He doesn't care about being proven right now.

He brings the phone to his ear, eyes never wavering from Peter Hale and, more importantly, never taking his gun off him.

“Jed,” he says tightly.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, punk? I went to-”

“It’s a fucking draugr,” Stiles hisses.

A pause. " _What?_ "

Stiles readjusts his sightlines, ignores the burning in his arm. "Undead, reanimated corpse, dream-walker, flesh-devourer, rotten hunk of-"

"I know what a draugr is," Jed says. His voice is tight. "How do you know?"

Stiles stares coldly at Peter who is casually buffing his nails on his shirt while the pack looks between Stiles and him. "Trust me. I know."

"Jesus," Jed curses. Then, "Do they know?"

"Considering I'm about five seconds from being torn limb from limb, no," Stiles says, voice tight. The wolves have all changed and, although he can't hear them through his ward, they're snarling.  Peter looks politely curious but otherwise not threatened in the least. "I can't let it live."

He means that morally, ethically, whatever-ly he has to kill it. He has to kill it before it kills him.

"Can you even kill it?" Jed asks after a moment and that-- that has the potential to hurt. Draugr can only be killed by heroes, selfless bona fide heroes, and the older man is asking if Stiles even fucking qualifies.

Stiles isn't hurt though. He knows he doesn't qualify but he also knows that he can incapacitate it long enough to fucking find someone who is. "I'll make it work."

"Do it and our deal's off," Jed says.

Stiles stops cold and he knows it shows. "Jed, it's an abomination."

"It's not your job," Jed says. "I don't want you doing anything to compromise the job and this sure as hell counts."

Stiles grinds his teeth, another spike of betrayal shooting through him. He'd expected Jed to understand, he realizes. He'd expected to get the green light, damn the consequences. He's expected Jed to believe Stiles when he said it needed to die.

Jed is more compromised than he'd thought possible, even with his niece involved. Another reason why this would be the last job he'd take from the man.

"Got it," he bites into the phone. "But don't blame me when it eats your niece's intestines while she's still alive." He hangs up before Jed can say anything else, nearly blind with rage.

Now that he's handicapped like this, he's got to focus on his survival rather than everyone else's. Get the job done quickly and efficiently. Get Jed's source. Come back and lock this fucker in a box of iron until he finds his own personal Hercules to set him on fire.

Pretend like he hadn't just publicly threatened one of the pack's members. Convince the nearly frothing Alpha a few feet from him that he hadn't just become a very real threat to his pack.

Nice. Awesome.

Stiles takes a deep breath and shoves the rage down. He needs to be calm and collected. He can do that.

Without lowering his weapon, Stiles drops his silencing wards. "Sorry about that. Honest mistake. If I lower my weapon am I going to get jumped?"

"Honest mistake?"  Derek snarls. His muscles are flexing underneath his tight, black shirt and if he didn't currently have a mouthful of fangs, Stiles would appreciate the view.

"Yeah," Stiles says and tries for a smile. It comes out a little sharper than he intended but he's not exactly thrilled either. "Peter, was it? Yeah, he looks like an ex of mine. Bad history."

"You said you weren't going to deal with the dead," Lydia says. Her eyes seem darker than before but still far too intelligent for his lie to stick.

Truth and lie, it was all about striking a believable balance.

"Yeah. Bad history, like I said." Now for a bit of truth to sell it. "That combined with the scent of death clinging to him like a cheap cologne made me a little trigger happy. Now, can I put this down or what?"

"You can smell death?" Scott asks, brow crinkling. He takes an obvious sniff of Peter. "He doesn't smell like death. Are you sick?"

"Sick in the head," Peter says. "Or so I'm told." He winks at Stiles.

Stiles widens his smile instead of frowning. It feels a lot like bearing his teeth and, by the look on Peter's face, he knows it.

"He means magically," Lydia says. She's still watching him with an inscrutable look on her face. "What are you that you can sense if someone's been resurrected or not?"

Resurrected. That's what they thought had happened. Well, he couldn't say it wasn't strangely apt. Stiles preferred to think about it as 'born'. There was never enough of the original person to be considered anything more than a shade of what they once were.

"Eh," Stiles says, "little of this, little of that." He cautiously lowers his weapon, moving it towards his holster. When no one seemed to be taking the opportunity to rip his throat out, he fully holsters his weapon and drops his hands to his thighs. It would take a fraction of a second to get to his knives but he is just about done being in this room and they needed to get the show on the road. "Anymore pack members I need to be aware of before we get going? Perhaps under the floorboards?"

"I'm the last," Peter says, rocking on his heels as if to take a step forward. Or leap forward. He smiles, smug, when Stiles' hand twitches at the motion. "My nephew doesn't like me greeting... _guests_."

Meaning Peter and the Alpha were related. Meaning Stiles would be gunning for more than just a pack member after this job. Perfect.

"I can't imagine why not," Stiles deadpans. He turns to the room at large, still keeping Peter well within his sight. "Maybe we can get onto business?"

"All work and no play makes for a very dull boy," Peter says. He looks up and down Stiles. "A pity."

"Peter," Derek growls.

"You always were susceptible to a pretty face, dear nephew," Peter says and there's something sinister in his voice that has Stiles' hackles bristling, especially when Derek flinches.

"Aw, you think I'm pretty," he says, mockingly. He means to discomfit the man.

It backfires horribly.

Peter's eyes do another full body scan but this time they linger. "Mouthwatering even," he says and it's horrifying because he means it in a very, very literal way.

"Peter," Derek says before Stiles can think of anything to say or draw his weapon, "go."

"As my Alpha commands," Peter says and turns sharply on his heel. "Do let me know when the little Retriever bites the hand that feeds it. I'm always excited to clean up your messes." He disappears down the hall and then up the stairs.

Stiles doesn't relax. The thing is still in the house and that's too close as far as he's concerned.

"That was creepy," Stiles says into the silence. He rocks back on his heels. "Nice to know every pack's got one."

"Shut up," Derek says. "Danny, what'd you find in the bestiary?"

"So we're just going to move on," Stiles says. "Great, perfect, just what I wanted-"

 “I skimmed it on the way over,” Danny interrupts. He walks fully into the room, an old, thick book tucked under his arm next to his laptop. “There are about five different types of witches, two of which could be capable of something like this, and no mention of what exactly they’d need a heart for.”

Lydia crooks a finger at him and he obligingly hands her the book. She flips it open and frowns at it. “There’s nothing in here we don’t already know.”

“The five types was new,” Scott says helpfully.

“Not to me,” Allison says. She steps in front of him to look over Lydia’s shoulder. “We never really had occasion to add witches when I was a kid.”

“The saltwater worked with the hex bags,” Isaac says. “We could try that.”

“No, that won’t work.” Stiles shrugs when they look at him. “Saltwater breaks spells and enchantments. This isn’t either of those.”

“So we’re back to our modus operandi,” Erica says. “Kill them and take it back.”

That’s...a rather eerie MO. Stiles shifts back into his corner.

“That’d be great,” Danny says. “Except-”

“We don’t even know who they are,” Lydia finishes. “Let’s find that out first and then make a strategy.”

Derek nods. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. We’ll toss the witch’s place, see what we can find.”

“I’ll go,” Scott says, mouth set mulishly. “I know where it is-”

“So do I,” Allison interrupts. “And I still have a heart.”

Isaac’s brows pinch together worriedly. “I should go with you, they could still be there.”

“I don’t want either of you going,” Scott says. He doesn’t flinch as they both turn to glare at him though Stiles can tell it’s a near thing. “What if the witches know how I, I, uh-” he rubs the back of his neck, “-feel about you? And, like, use that against you?”

_Ah,_ Stiles thinks as both Allison and Isaac look simultaneously charmed, bashful and irritated, _menage a trois._   Isaac looks down in shame and Stiles raises an eyebrow. _Unresolved menage a trois._

That couldn’t be easy.

“Good point,” Erica says cheerfully, “Boyd and I will go.” She smiles, showing all her teeth. “I hope they’re still there. I haven’t hit anything in ages. Right, honey?”

“Yeah,” Boyd says. Stiles refrains from pointing out that the big man had hit Stiles barely an hour ago.

“No,” Derek says, “Lydia and Jackson will. They’ve got more experience.”

“I tend to leave that kind of thing to the cops,” Jackson says, one corner of his mouth lifted in distaste. “Or private investigator.”

“Or,” Stiles says before this can get any more ridiculous, “you can all let me do my job and I’ll go. Since, you know, you hired me.” He rocks back on his heels and shrugs.

They stare at him. He tries not to reach for his gun again. As one, all the puppies' head swivel to Derek.

"Let's go," Derek says, striding out of the room.

Stiles scrambles after him. "Wait, what do you mean 'let's'?"

"Oh my god," Erica says from behind them, "we hired someone to do this for us. Can this actually be the one time we _don't_ have to risk life or limb?"

"We should hire people more often," Allison says.

"Maybe the next one will actually kill Peter," Isaac says optimistically.

The door slams shut behind them and the pack's voices are cut off. Derek sets off through the graveyard, back towards the cars. Stiles hops around a mud puddle and falls into step next to him.

"No, really, you're not coming with me," he says, trying to sound commanding and _wow, what a terrible idea_.

Derek growls at the command, eyes momentarily flaring alpha red. Stiles stops, hands held up in the classic 'no harm' gesture. Derek, the dick, keeps walking.

Stiles tries again because this isn't something he's really willing to compromise on. "Seriously, I need to go by myself. I'll need to concentrate to find them and when I do I'll probably have to fight them and make them break the working and it's just going to be really messy so you can understand if I can't have you being all, all _distracting_ and _growly_ when I-"

"I'm not distracting," Derek says without turning around.

Stiles is glad because he can't help the full body flail that encompasses _all of Derek_. The man's like a walking sex dream. Had he _ever_ looked in a mirror?

"You should let someone else tell you that," is what he says. "The case of red eye you got going on has proven to be plenty distracting already."

Derek throws him a dirty look but doesn't say anything, just keeps walking. Stiles throws up his hands and jogs around him just as they reach the cars. He puts a hand out, stopping Derek.

Derek looks from Stiles' hand to his face and back again. Judging by the impressive tilt of his eyebrows, he is not impressed.

"Look," Stiles says, "obviously I can't stop you from coming. Fine but there are going to be ground rules. One, you stay behind me. Two, you do what I say _when I say it_ not because I'm more dominant -- stop looking at me like that, no one is doubting your wolfy prowess -- but because I know what has the potential to kill us in a witch house and you don't. Three," he pauses and raises his eyebrows significantly, "stop looking like you want to kill me. It's super distracting and I just don't have time to be wetting my pants over you and the witches at the same time."

"Wetting your pants," Derek repeats slowly. His eyes flicker down and then back up.

Stiles flushes and nobly tries to look like he hasn't turned the color of an overripe tomato. "Look, dude, I'm trying to compromise here, take it or leave it."

Derek opens the door to the Camaro, sliding into the driver's seat. Stiles decides to take that as agreement.

"Right, cool, so I'll just follow you-"

Derek swings open his passenger door. "Get in."

Stiles has never met a more frustrating person. "Do you know what compromise means? You go your way and I'll go mine--"

"We go together," Derek says.

"Look, dude," Stiles says as Derek's eye twitches at the word, "that's not gonna work. I have things in my Jeep I can guarantee you're going to be glad I have if the witches are there. Consider it my magic carpet bag, alright?"

Derek just stares at him. The intensity of it is making Stiles feel alternately scared and turned on. He does not have time for either.

Stile throws up his hands. "Just trust me, okay? I've been paid-" blackmailed "- to do this job. I'm going to do it."

Derek leans over the passenger's seat so he can more easily meet Stiles' eyes. "You just pulled a gun on a member of my pack," he says. "I'm keeping my eye on you. Get in the car."

Right. He'd forgotten in the stupid argument that he'd threatened a beta in front of his Alpha. He was lucky the entire pack wasn't coming.

Goddamnit, he hated face to face.

"I'll just go grab a couple of things, yeah?"

"You do that," says Derek.


End file.
